A neat stack of papers perches next to Emily’s laptop on the kitchen counter. A printed version of her manuscript. It must be. She’s only working on the one book, as far as I know, and that has to be it.

It’s wrong to look at it.

Wrong to go and hover over the countertop.

Wrong to flip the first few pages.

I do it anyway.

My father was not a good boss. I’ve said it before, but it bears saying again. In a town like Eben Cape, the consequences of a person’s actions are never fully contained. What my father did at the Eben Cape Canning Co. followed me to school.

Greg Molter’s father worked for mine at the canning company. When Joe and I were relatively safe at home, Greg’s dad was the one being bullied by my father.

You see how it happens.

At the end of the night, our father came home to us, and Greg’s father came home to him. He let off steam to his wife. He let his hurt show on his face. He could do that at home. He couldn’t do that at the canning company.

I don’t blame Greg for how he felt. It must have seemed unthinkable to stand by and do nothing. Of course, Greg couldn’t target my father. As an adult, and as his father’s boss, my dad was completely out of his reach.

I wasn’t.

He started small. Insults in the hallway. Pulling my hair. Whenever Greg could find me, he retaliated. It got worse and worse until the day he waited for me after school.

Like all bullies, Greg attracted a crowd. He wasn’t alone when he confronted me, spitting mad. I’ll never forget how red his face was or how tightly clenched his fists were.

In my mind, I had nowhere to go. It didn’t occur to me to go back into school. I was frozen with fear.

I was alone, and then I wasn’t. Joe stepped out of the school. He took one look at Greg and his friends and put his body in front of mine.

“Emily,” he said. “Run.”

When he got home an hour later, his shirt was torn and he had a black eye that wouldn’t fade for over a week.

“It’s not so bad,” he told me, and I was relieved, too. It was no worse than what our father would have done. I brought him a cloth for his bloody knuckles and frozen peas for his eye. I held it on for him.

“Thank you,” I told my brother, there in the kitchen.

His eyes were closed. “Don’t worry, Em. You’re my sister. I’ll always protect you.”